by Shelly Ellis
“Where do you think I learned to do it?” he answered flatly, wondering where she was going with this.
“Well, considering you’ve probably never been a secret agent, I’m guessing a move like that was from your criminal days. Maybe a drug handoff?”
He didn’t respond.
“But those days are behind you. Right, Ricky?”
He exhaled impatiently. “I thought we were here to talk about your sister. Not me.”
“Oh, we are. But I just want to make sure I know who I’m working with . . . who’s helping me. Because if you’re not on the up and up, if you are engaged in any criminal activity—”
“Come on, Officer Fuller. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“—and if I get wind of it,” she continued, ignoring him, “then I’m obligated to put you in handcuffs. Okay?”
He smirked. “Don’t tempt me, honey.”
“Excuse me?”
“You putting me in handcuffs might not be such a bad thing. I might even like it.” He shrugged and took another drink. “Who knows?”
At that, her face changed. Her mouth fell open. He enjoyed watching her shocked reaction. She seemed like a woman who liked to stay in control. Seeing her break her restrained façade was amusing. But she was back in control at lightning speed. He watched as she pushed back her shoulders and stubbornly raised her chin.
“I’m serious, Ricky.”
“I know you are—and I’ve been forewarned. If Ricky is a bad boy, Simone takes him to jail,” he said dryly. “Got it. Now are you ready to talk about what we actually came here to talk about, or what?”
She nodded. “Of course. So where did you see Skylar?”
“I think I saw her at his place on Wisconsin Avenue.”
“By ‘his place,’ you mean Dol—”
“Yes,” he answered tersely, annoyed that she was actually going to blurt out Dolla Dolla’s name after all the subterfuge they were going through. “I can’t say for sure, but I think it was her. She kind of looked like the girl you showed me.”
“Was she okay? Was she hurt?”
For the second time that night, he saw her reserve break a little. She sounded less like a no-nonsense police officer and more like a worried big sister. He hesitated, unsure how to put this part into words without alarming her. He remembered the young woman who strolled down the hall into Dolla’s kitchen with heavy-lidded eyes and a silk robe that barely covered her. After waffling for a few seconds, Ricky decided to just spit it out.
“She didn’t look good. She was kind of out of it, like she was high on something. I don’t know what. I think she’s one of his girls now.”
Simone cringed. She turned away from him to blink back her tears. It took a few seconds. Again, he saw the control break a little. When she pulled herself back together, she faced him again with stoic resolve that looked forced. “And . . . and you’re sure it was her?”
“No, I’m not. I told you I only think it was her. I can’t say for sure.”
“Then one of us has to confirm it. You either need to ask her point blank—or I need to get in there to see her myself.”
“That would be a no and a hell no! I’m not confirming shit with her, and I’m definitely not sneaking you into his goddamn apartment.”
He felt bad for her, but he didn’t feel that bad.
“Better than me going in there with guns blazing. Right?”
He chuckled. “I don’t know you that well, Simone, but I’m guessin’ you wouldn’t be that reckless.”
“No, you don’t know me, so don’t assume what I would do.”
He was taken aback by the hard edge in her voice and the glint in her eyes, but slowly, her face softened. She inclined her head.
“Look, I’ll . . . I’ll be honest with you, Ricky. The longer my sister stays missing, the more desperate I get. It’s taken a toll on me . . . on my mom. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep anymore. It’s hard to watch her be like this. I just want this to end, and every day is a battle not to go charging to that man’s place, bang on the damn door, and scream Skylar’s name. But I don’t do it, because I know it’s stupid. I know it’s dangerous. I’m trying to keep from following that impulse, but it’s a struggle. That’s why I’m turning to you. I thought you would know a better way to go about it. I thought you came here to help me.”
“I did. I told you everything I saw, everything I know.”
“Which is frankly jack shit! You think you saw a girl who looked like my sister at his place, but you don’t know for sure. What the hell am I supposed to do with that information? How does that help me?”
“Look, sweetheart,” he said, leaning forward and glowering at her, “I’m risking my business and my life to tell you this stuff. If that was your sister and he found out I was talking to you about her, that I snitched on him—it could be my ass! I don’t assume that just because he and I have been tight for fifteen years that he wouldn’t hesitate to put me six-feet under, so don’t try to act like what I’m doing right now is nothin’.”
He expected her to argue with him, to give him a good excuse to stand from the table and storm out. Instead, she slowly nodded. “You’re right; I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Ricky didn’t respond. He took another drink from his glass instead.
“I told you. My sister being gone has . . . affected me and my family. But I shouldn’t take it out on other people. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I appreciate you doing this. Really I do,” she said, reaching out and grabbing the free hand he rested on the tabletop. She squeezed it and now the twitch in his groin was turning into a full stirring. He kept reminding himself that she was a cop. He hated cops. But the reminder wasn’t working. Mercifully, she let go and returned her hands to her lap. “I know you’re risking a lot. I’m just scared for Skylar. So scared. I feel responsible for her. I’m . . . I’m her big sister. I should’ve listened to her. I should’ve seen the warning signs. This never should’ve happened!”
“Don’t do that,” he said, making her frown.
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t start blaming yourself. It’s not gonna help anything. Trust me. I’ve been down that road and it doesn’t change a goddamn thing. You’ll just wallow in ‘shoulda-beens. ’”
“You felt guilty too?” she asked quietly. “You felt guilty about . . . about her.”
She didn’t say his baby sister’s name which was a good thing, because he definitely would’ve gotten up and left if she had.
“Yeah, I felt guilty. I still do. Who wouldn’t? I was her big brother and I was supposed to protect her. I didn’t do that and now she’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged and once again tried to shut out memories of Desiree, of her singing in her Barbie nightgown in front of the television when she was eight years old, of her smiling in her sequined junior prom gown on the front stoop of their old apartment building. He hadn’t thought about that stuff in years. The only thing more frustrating than his attraction to Simone, was getting swarmed by those memories.
“I don’t want the same thing that happened to your sister to happen to Skylar,” Simone now said.
“I know you don’t.”
“So help me, Ricky,” she begged, leaning toward him again, gazing beseechingly into his eyes. “Please! You said yourself that she’s seventeen. Skylar is of legal age. My own police department won’t take on the case. They said she’s just a runaway. I have to prove to them she’s being held against her will.”
“But I don’t know if she’s being held against her will!”
“If she was high and out of it like you said, I can’t see how she would be able to leave!”
“I’m not a detective, Simone.”
“And neither am I. I’m just a low-level cop who handles car break-ins and house burglaries most of the time, but I have to save Skylar. I have to. And I can’t . . . I cannot do this without you. You know that. You’re the only one in Dolla’s crew th
at I trust.”
Their faces were only inches apart now and she was dangerously close to getting kissed. He raised his glass to his lips again, forcing her to lean back. He took another drink, draining the last of his glass.
“I don’t know what else you expect me to do. I told you I can’t—”
“Get a picture of her. A good picture and let me see it. That way I can know for sure if it’s her. Then . . . then we go from there.”
“Go from there? What the hell does that mean? And how am I supposed to get a picture of her? I don’t think I was even supposed to see her! You really think he’s going to let me roll up in there and snap some pics of her with my cellphone?”
For the first time, Simone smiled. “You’re a smart guy. You’re cunning. You wouldn’t have made it as far as you have if that wasn’t the case. I know you can figure out a way, Ricky. If anyone could, it would be you.”
“Look at you pouring on the charm! You really think that just because you flattered me, I’m gonna do this shit? You’ve got a lot of confidence in yourself, honey.”
He watched as she rose from her chair. She then leaned down inches from his face, giving him a full view of the breasts peeking over the top of her halter top. She had nice breasts. They looked soft, like they would be a perfect handful. This time he couldn’t help himself. He did lick his lips.
“No,” she whispered into his ear, “I have a lot of confidence in you.”
She then reached into her purse, pulled out a business card, and handed to him. “When you do get her picture, call me. I know how you feel about leaving phone records, but the other cops will start to wonder who’s the guy I keep meeting outside of the doughnut shop in our neighborhood.”
He tore his eyes away from her breasts and gazed at her business card. He grudgingly took it from her.
She stood upright and playfully pointed a finger down at him. “I’ll be waiting for your call, Ricky,” she said over her shoulder before she walked off.
He watched her, staring at her ass as she strolled across the restaurant, then cursed under his breath.
Chapter 12
Jamal
“Do you see them?” Bridget asked, standing on the balls of her feet, craning her neck.
She had to shout to be heard over the noise of the several hundred people making their way through Union Station. The train arrival and departure announcements blaring over the PA system also made it a challenge to be heard.
Jamal gazed at the passengers streaming through the opened glass doors, all dragging rolling luggage behind them and carrying duffel bags on their shoulders. He looked for two familiar faces among the crowd, but didn’t see either. He shook his head. “No, not yet.”
He and Bridget had come to Union Station to pick up her parents. Susan and Martin Yates had ridden the 4:45 Acela Express from New Haven to D.C., and would stay overnight at a hotel before they headed to a wedding near Charlottesville, Virginia, tomorrow. Bridget was driving the trio to the wedding. She had asked Jamal if he wanted to come along, but he’d begged off and said he had too much work to do back at city hall; he’d have dinner with them all instead.
But the truth was—considering how his dilemma with Mayor Johnson still kept him up at night—he didn’t know if he had the fortitude or energy to deal with Bridget’s family. He couldn’t stand being confined in a car for more than two hours with them and then sitting through a wedding.
They were upper-class New Englanders who thought J. Crew was inexpensive and made constant references to the Ivy League schools they went to, their garden and golfing clubs, and Humane Society fundraisers. He noticed that whenever her mom, Susan, was around him, Susan would turn him into a walking, talking encyclopedia on all things black—asking him about everything from Beyoncé to Black Lives Matter. They weren’t bad folks necessarily, but he never felt like he could relax in their presence. He was as careful of what he did and said in front Bridget’s parents as he was at any major political event. Frankly, being around them was emotionally and intellectually exhausting.
“There they are!” Bridget said, pointing in the distance. “Mom! Dad!”
Jamal looked in the direction where she’d pointed. He finally spotted them among the tide of people. Bridget’s mom looked very similar to Bridget though her graying red hair barely swept her shoulders and she was about twenty pounds heavier. Jamal wondered if Susan looked how Bridget would look in twenty-five years. In contrast, Bridget’s father, Martin, was a tall, slender man who wore glasses and stiffly carried himself with an air of importance. Though her mother was smiling, Bridget’s father had the same pained expression on his face that he always had—like he was annoyed with world around him.
“Mom . . . Dad, over here! Over here!” Bridget shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. She then waved frantically.
Her parents finally spotted them. Her mother waved in return and her father nodded, but rather than walk toward where Bridget and Jamal stood, they lingered near the sliding doors, looking over their shoulders. That’s when Jamal noticed the slim blond man coming up behind them.
“Shit,” Jamal spat, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“What?” Bridget asked as she squinted at the throng.
“Did you know he was coming?”
“Who was . . . Oh!” she exclaimed when she finally recognized the man, too. “My parents mentioned that Blake might be coming along. I guess he made it!”
“Yeah, I guess he did,” Jamal said flatly.
Blake Hobbes was Bridget’s ex. Bridget and Blake had grown up together, dated in prep school and in college before going their separate ways when Bridget was twenty-three. Jamal didn’t mind Bridget staying in touch with her ex, or seeing him occasionally at lobster bakes and Fourth of July celebrations that her or his parents held. He didn’t even mind that Blake was still so close to Bridget’s family. No, what annoyed the hell out of him about Blake, was that he felt the constant need to remind Jamal and everyone who would listen, that he had been Bridget’s first love, her first boyfriend.
“I was her first in many, many ways,” he had once drunkenly boasted to Jamal with a suggestive wiggle of the eyebrows last year. “No guy will ever top that.”
Jamal had wanted to punch him in the face that night, but had fought down the urge. Now, seeing that pompous asshole stroll toward him along with Bridget’s parents, he again felt the overwhelming desire to punch him.
“Just try to be nice. OK, sweetie?” Bridget whispered, knowing how he felt about her ex. “Blake really is a good guy if you get to know him.”
Jamal didn’t respond.
“It’s so good to see you guys!” Bridget gushed, rushing toward her mother and father. She embraced them both in a wide-armed hug. When they were done, Bridget’s mom gave Jamal a hug as well, though it was admittedly more awkward. Her father shook his hand.
“Jamal,” the older man said with a nod.
“Martin,” Jamal replied with equal stiffness.
While the Yates family continued their greeting, Jamal and Blake stared at one another. Blake extended his hand first for a shake.
“Hey, what’s up, bro?”
That was the other annoying thing about Blake, how he constantly called him “bro.”
“I’m good. How are you?” Jamal answered. He attempted to shake Blake’s hand but the other man grabbed it and dragged him into a hug. Blake’s palm was even softer than Bridget’s, illustrating that Blake probably hadn’t done a hard day’s work in his entire life.
“I’m good too! Taking a long weekend so that I can go to this wedding. I had to rearrange some things at the firm to make the trip but I’ll be honest, I’m going to enjoy the wine country in Virginia while I’m out there. I’ve scheduled a tour for all of us at a few vineyards. It’ll be like a mini-vacation.”
“I didn’t know you were headed to the wedding, too.”
“Yeah, I’m friends with the groom. We used to play lacrosse together in pr
ep school.”
Of course, you did, Jamal thought dryly. He swore all these people knew each other.
“Marty and Sue mentioned that they were driving there with Bridge and asked if I wanted to come along on their little road trip.”
“Oh. That was . . . nice of them,” Jamal said while glancing at Bridget’s parents who were still talking to Bridget.
“You don’t mind me going along, do you, bro? All of us hanging out?”
“No.” Jamal’s eyes snapped back to Blake. “Why would I mind?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were okay with me being Bridge’s plus one?”
“You’re not my ‘plus one,’” Bridget quickly clarified, looping her arm through Jamal’s. “And of course Sinclair doesn’t mind you going. He has absolutely nothing to worry about.” She kissed Jamal’s cheek.
“Who’s Sinclair?” Blake asked, frowning.
Jamal opened his mouth to answer but Bridget beat him to it.
“Jay’s going by his middle name, Sinclair, now,” Bridget said proudly. “Doesn’t it sound so sophisticated? I told him he should’ve done it sooner.”
“It does sound rather nice,” Susan said with a nod. “Doesn’t it, Marty? Very stately.”
Martin grunted in reply and looked longingly at the corridor leading out of the train station.
“Changed your name, huh, bro? Trying to evade the IRS?” Blake asked, nudging his shoulder.
“That’d be hard to do as deputy mayor of the nation’s capital,” Jamal replied with a tight smile.
He wasn’t one to boast about his job, but sometimes you had to let a dude know. You had to put him back in his place when he got out of pocket, and Blake was getting dangerously close to getting out of pocket.
“So are we heading to dinner now?” Martin asked, grimacing. “It was a long train ride and I’m famished.”
“We made reservations for four at a restaurant a few blocks from here,” Bridget piped.
“But what about Blake? We can’t leave him to fend for himself for dinner!” Susan cried.
“I’m sure if we add one more to our reservation, it won’t matter,” Martin said. “Just let the restaurant know we have another person.”